


Be my mirror, my sword and shield

by impassivetemerity



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassivetemerity/pseuds/impassivetemerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around him, the parade explodes into a storm of bullets and yelling while he kneels on the ground, unable to provide guidance to anyone, much less himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be my mirror, my sword and shield

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for eccecorinna on tumblr. The prompt was Nurse Me, Courfeyrac/Combeferre. Inspired by a post about Courfeyrac being shot and killed at Lemarque's funeral procession instead of dying at the barricade. Not heavily shippy, but mentions of a relationship are made.

Everything happens too quickly for Combeferre to know what’s happening right away; the thunderclap of the shot ringing out in the crowd coupled with horrified screams of the people around where Courfeyrac was standing all occurring in a matter of hazy seconds. Combeferre turns, tucking one of the pistols he had in his hand against his side. The sight awaiting him was nothing his studies had remotely prepared for him for. Seeing the broken bodies of the injured patients that needed help was one thing, but Courfeyrac on the ground, gurgling and choking on his own blood was a horror beyond any of the words he could conjure.

A vicious spot of red had bloomed in the fabric of his vest, jacket torn off by another student in the crowd who was screaming for a medic or a doctor, anyone who could help. His knees buckle before he can right himself, to push back his overwhelming sense of dread and regain his head. Someone jostles him from behind, pushing Combeferre aside so he can get a better look at the scene unfolding a few feet away. It spurs Combeferre into action, calling for others to move aside as he pushes his way through the growing sea of bodies. He takes a slow, deep breath before breaking into the last layer of people standing between him and Courfeyrac now, willing the panic to back of his mind as he kneels next to his friend.

“Do you think a cleaner could get this stain out?” Courfeyrac rasps, offering a weak and bloodstained smile.

“I don’t think so.” Combeferre motions for him to stay quiet, putting a finger to his lips while he urges the student to apply pressure to the wound with the flag Combeferre had been holding on to moments ago. He pushes Courfeyrac’s legs up, trying to recall everything he could from scientific and anatomical discussions he had sat in on.

Courfeyrac’s consciousness floats in and out as Combeferre considers his options. He could attempt to move the other student back to Musain, and try to have Joly help, if the injury wasn’t severe enough. A cough breaks Combeferre’s focus, sharp eyes drifting from the blood soaked flag to Courfeyrac’s face, noting the blood flecking and drying on his lips. Those lips had brushed smoothly against his skin on more than one occasion, moments stolen by the other student when they were alone in the backroom of the cafe, they had been silenced once or twice when Courfeyrac had gotten incendiary, his usual good nature taken over by the talk of making the monarchy pay for all of the injustices against the French people in blood. He had calmed Courfeyrac when he had gotten nervous over possibly dying in the oncoming revolution, told him they would succeed and make it through to see France become the France of their greatest aspirations.

Now, he knows that those beautiful words of hope were nothing more than lies. Courfeyrac had believed him, through the doubts and darkness of his own fear, guided by words Combeferre now hated himself for.

“How does it feel?” he asks uselessly. (The texts he had read, and lectures he had attended already told him, there would be a great deal of pain, shortness of breath...)

“I would... _hfff_..feel better if your hand was on me.”

A twinge of agitation goes through him, annoyed that Courfeyrac wasn’t taking this as seriously— _he was dying, he had to know that, he had to with all of Joly’s talk, of his rambling about the dangers of infection in gun wounds and how quickly one would bleed out_ —but he obliges, setting one hand over the student’s wound, allowing his assistant to take his blood soaked hand away. The flag was drenched with lukewarm blood against his hand, red and blue darkened by the deep crimson, the white stripe of fabric now completely soaked through and hopelessly ruined. Courfeyrac’s vest was unrecognisable (it was his best one, brought out only for important dates, and days where he felt like dressing up) though Combeferre would know it anywhere. Underneath him, his friend sighs happily.

“Much better,” he murmurs weakly, eyes falling shut, Courfeyrac smiles again, lacking all of the luminescent warmth he exuded.  “Though you’re... _hff..._ not the best looking nurse, I’ve seen... _hff..._ much more attractive.”

“...You’ll take this nurse and be happy with it.” Combeferre’s expression falters, voice lacking all of its strength. He manages to keep the tears threatening to spill over back for the moment, even if it wouldn’t be for much longer.

A sickening noise came from Courfeyrac, interrupted by a fit of coughing and more blood. It had probably been laughter, judging by the timing and timbre, Combeferre hated the sound of it, hated that it would be the noise he remembers and hears echoing in his head for days (if he had that much time left himself.)

“Bossing me around... _hff..._ to the last.”

“The word is guiding, thank you.”

Courfeyrac’s voice is weaker—if such a thing is possible, a grim sign which twists Combeferre’s stomach into knots. His palm is cold now, blood cooling now that the flow had ebbed considerably. He can hardly hear the faint rasping coming from Courfeyrac, all of the fears he had coming true when it stops. A few seconds pass as he waits, panic crawling up through his chest when another rasp doesn’t come, causing his throat to constrict around all of the words he wants to say, all of the apologies he wants to issue to Courfeyrac for lying, for telling him everything will be fine and that he will always bring him through the forests of his own fears.

“...Courfeyrac, please.” he whispers when the first tear falls, followed by another, and then another, turning into a stream that drips on to his glasses, blocking his view of the smile on Courfeyrac’s lips.

“Please, please, please.” It has become his mantra, his prayer. “Please don’t go where I cannot guide you.”

Long ago, Combeferre had dismissed the idea of miracles, one of the only things he had never believed in. Now, he hoped for one fervently, trying to spark the belief in himself when the grief overwhelms him. It sinks into skin, making his body numb under its grasp. Courfeyrac does not move, his eyes do not flutter, nor do his hands reach out to pull Combeferre back to the world where they both exist, bringing his life back into balance. Around him, the parade explodes into a storm of bullets and yelling while he kneels on the ground, unable to provide guidance to anyone, much less himself.

His pillar has fallen, the centre of his world descending into nothingness. 


End file.
